


Skin Deep

by thegingerintheback (CdnGingerGirl)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Sherlock has a secret, Vanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:24:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/thegingerintheback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did you really think Sherlock just naturally looked good?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This may come across as a bit OOC for some people. Chacun à son goût!

Sherlock Holmes is a very pretty man.

While he affects an air of not caring about his looks (the body is, after all, merely transport), he definitely uses them to his advantage. And despite his constant grousing about how unobservant the rest of the world is, no one, not John, or Lestrade, or anyone, really, can fail to notice the heads swiveling (both of the male and female persuasion) around to watch Sherlock as he walks by.

It’s not just his looks, although they’re alien enough to capture attention on their own. And it’s not just the clothes, even though they’re obviously bespoke and fit him perfectly, accenting his trim torso, slim waist, and (judging by the stares), his sublime arse. It’s more that Sherlock, even though he eats like a wounded bird and sleeps less than most insomniacs, _looks good_. His skin is always healthy, flushed with a soft glow. His hair is soft and glossy, curls artfully tousled. His hands are always well-groomed, nails neatly trimmed and cuticles smooth and moisturised, not a hangnail in evidence. Even the small scars on his hands and wrists, evidence of his work with acids and flames, are faded, the edges blending neatly with the rest of his skin. Despite his previous hard-living lifestyle, and even though his last birthday was his thirty-fifth, there is not an age spot or blemish to be seen.

John, who will grudgingly admit he looks at least five years older than he is, hasn’t really spent much time thinking about Sherlock’s remarkable appearance, beyond chalking it up to stellar genetics. He’s seen photos of Sherlock’s parents, after all: his mother was tall, willowy, and even in her seventies could pass for her late fifties; his father was robust and hale, the very picture of landed gentry. John never dreamed that there was much more to Sherlock’s good looks than just genetics.

~~

The pub is crowded and loud, more football fans present than usual owing to the last match of the season. It was do-or-die for Man City; a win tonight would have them in the round of 16. Really, John thinks as he navigates the crowd with two pints held aloft, this is insane. Thank god Lestrade had arrived early enough to snag a table.

John sets the pints down heavily, his shoulder aching from having to hold them steady while holding them above his head. The DI takes his, looking amused at John’s efforts. “All right, John?”

“That blonde pinched my arse as I squeezed by her,” John grumbles. He indicates the culprit with a tilt of his head; Lestrade’s eyes widen as he takes in the Man City t-shirt straining across her ample assets.

“You could do worse, I suppose,” he says, his eyes lingering on the woman’s chest. “Oi!” He exclaims, as John pokes him in the arm.

“Don’t encourage her!” He hisses. “Bad enough Sherlock will see the bruise on my arse; he’ll probably be able to deduce everything about her based on the shape of her fingers.”

“John, c’mon. Have a seat, have a drink. I didn’t realise Sherlock was so…possessive.” Lestrade’s eyes are twinkling as he studies the woman’s legs, slim in skinny jeans and high-heeled boots. “D’you think I could get her number?”

“Can’t hurt to ask, I suppose,” John shrugs, taking a long pull from his glass. “Although, if she’s fine with pinching a perfect stranger, she’s probably into other weird stuff. I bet she bites.”

“Not a problem, John. I never mind biting back.” Lestrade smirks, draining a quarter of his bitter.

“Ugh, that’s a little more than I needed to know.”

They watch the match in silence; it’s too loud in the pub to speak at any comfortable volume. Lestrade fetches two more pints, and is solidly turned down by the blonde on the way back (“ah, well, when I saw her up close I figured she was probably about half my age anyway, John”) and they stay through the first half, until the DI gets a text. He reads it quickly and groans.

“Emergency meeting; we’ve got a problem with one of the cases going to trial next week,” he shouts in John’s ear. “See you next Saturday?”

John raises his glass in response, and Lestrade leaves. When his is drained, John gathers his coat; he doesn’t much fancy being on his own in the pub, and the blonde is definitely eyeing him up.

The walk helps to clear his head; with age, he thinks wryly, comes a lower tolerance for alcohol, but when did he get so old that two pints is enough to fog his mind? Although, judging by the approving look of the buxom pincher, clearly he wasn’t ready to be put out to pasture just yet.

He studies his reflection in a plate-glass window as he passes a closed electronics shop. His hair may be more salt than cinnamon these days, and he can definitely tell when he’s running short on sleep, but he’s still easy on the eyes, if he does say so himself.  His physique is fighting fit, thanks to his twice-weekly visits to the boxing gym and all the running around he does with Sherlock. He has crows’ feet around his eyes, but he’s been told more than once that the crinkles he gets when he smiles are “cute”. His dimples have been called “adorable” and more than one person has admitted they’re what drew them to him. All in all, not bad.

As he walks, he wonders idly if he’s succumbing to a midlife crisis. Time was, he would have been flattered to have a girl like that pinch his bum and show such obvious interest, but now it just feels… gross. Part of that is his relationship with Sherlock, he knows, but still.

And yet. There is a part of him that wonders just what Sherlock sees in him, or rather, what Sherlock sees when he looks at him. For all his confidence-building as he walked past the window, he knows that compared to the pale detective, he’s faded and wan. If Sherlock is the moon, dazzling and other-worldly, then John is a lamp, common and dull.

Sherlock has assured him more than once that he admires John, that he needs him. The sex doesn’t hurt either, John muses; more than once he has taken Sherlock completely apart, reduced him to a blushing, gasping mess, which he knows Sherlock loves. But still, there is that tiny, nagging voice that wonders: why him? Why me?

Sighing, he fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door to 221B. He drops his coat on his chair, and goes into the kitchen to make tea.

“Sherlock?” He calls, looking around the kitchen. It’s reasonably tidy, considering its occupants, but it’s empty, besides him. Sherlock isn’t on the sofa, either, and from the kitchen John can see his bedroom door is open, so he’s not hiding there. His coat is still on the hook by the door, so he hasn’t gone out. The bathroom door is closed, but John can’t hear any water running, so clearly Sherlock isn’t in the shower.

Through the noise of the kettle whistling, John hears a noise coming from the bathroom. It’s a heavy thud, almost like a glass bottle hitting the floor. He sighs and turns the flame off, putting the kettle aside. Moving softly, he knocks twice on the bathroom door. “Sherlock? You in there?”

Through the door, he can hear soft music, a soprano singing in French about, if he remembers correctly, love being like a bird. He also hears another thud and soft cursing. Then: “John? Why aren’t you at the pub?”

“Greg got called away, and I didn’t much feel like sitting alone,” John calls back. He decides not to mention the blonde with the tits; Sherlock will find out about her soon enough, especially when John takes his clothes off. “Are you all right in there?”

“Fine… I’m fine.” Sherlock’s voice is strange, and his speech is stiff, like his jaw can’t move. John sighs; either the git has gotten himself decked again, or he’s doing something he knows he’s not to do in the loo and doesn’t want John to know about it. “No need to come in, I’m just…” He trails off, and John could swear he sounds uncertain. Then Sherlock clears his throat and continues. “Just listening to some Bizet and taking a little time.”

“Time? For what?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you, John!” Sherlock snaps in his odd voice. There’s a rattle, as if something empty clattered on the floor from a decent height. “It’s nothing! Just go away!”

John has developed immunity to Sherlock’s aggression, and the words roll off his back. “Are you sure? I boiled the kettle; want some tea?”

“No, it’s fine. I have something in here. Please John, just go watch telly or something, and I’ll be out soon.” Breaking glass, and Sherlock cursing, audibly this time. “Dammit! Just go, John!”

That does it. John’s gotten pretty handy with Sherlock’s lockpicks, even if he isn’t in the same league as the detective. He fetches the set and jimmies open the door. “I heard something in there break, Sherlock, so I’m not letting you stay locked in—”

As the door swings open, John stops talking abruptly; he can’t believe his eyes.

The bathroom is littered with bottles and tubes, and John isn’t sure he can trust what he’s seeing. Sherlock’s iPod is sitting on the edge of the tub, playing something operatic; a glass of red wine sits next to it. Sherlock himself is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, a towel folded between his back and the toilet tank. He’s wearing his blue dressing gown, and has another towel folded around his neck. His hair is oily, lying lank on his scalp, and his face is covered with some kind of stiff, green gunge.

Sherlock glares at John, from his hunched-over position. He’s rubbing some kind of thick, white jelly into his heel; John can see it’s Vaseline. He already has a fuzzy blue sock on the other foot.

John can do nothing but stand in the doorway, stunned. The lockpick slips from his nerveless grip and pings on the floor.

“Well, now that you’re in, are you going to stay or not?” Sherlock snaps. The gunk as cracked around his mouth; in the sink, John can see a tube of some sort of clay-based mask (“to dry up oily spots!”). The bottle on its side on the ground, John recognizes as Sherlock’s hair oil; he’s seen the man use it before, though usually only a little bit at a time. Now, it seems he’s got half the bottle in his hair. The container of Vaseline is mostly empty, and there are various other potions and lotions scattered around the loo.

John can only gape. He’s never seen _anything_ like this before. He knew Sherlock was vain (really, the man was fooling no one when he dismissed his body as transport), but he never thought it extended to this. He can’t help goggling at the man in his robe, all masked and gunked-up.

They stare at each other for close to a minute, and then John finally unfreezes and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He can’t help grinning as he snaps a photo of Sherlock in all his glory.

“Really Sherlock, I had no idea you were such a pretty detective,” he says, laughing. Sherlock rolls his eyes; they stand out starkly against the heavy layer of cream under them.

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have respected my wishes and left me alone!”

“What, and miss all this?” John indicates the bathroom with a sweep of his hand. The tub still has a puddle of water in the bottom and an open jar of Epsom salts is perfuming the air with the subtle scent of lilies, mixing with the heavy scents of hair oil and moisturiser. “This is too good to miss!” He snaps another photo, and laughs at the look on Sherlock’s face. If Sherlock could kill with his expression, John would be in Molly’s morgue right now. John doesn’t care. “Shall I bring you some bonbons, my love? When’s your manicure scheduled?” He laughs full out.

Sherlock gives him another Look, his nostrils pinched. “I never took you for a cruel man, John. You didn’t think I just looked good naturally, did you? There’s only so much genetics can do.”

John tucks his mobile away and shuffles forward, avoiding the debris and broken glass. He takes Sherlock’s hands between both of his; they’re so soft and smooth. “Sherlock, tell me the truth. Have you had a facelift?”

He laughs again as Sherlock yanks his hands away. “John, if you’re going to be so petty, just go! I’m not forcing you to stay. So you’ve discovered my secret; I don’t care! Yes, my body is transport, but if I am to use it to get what I want, to get information I need, doesn’t it behoove me to take proper care of it?”

John can’t believe his ears. The man who eats only when John forces or bribes him to, who will willingly sleep only when he literally falls over, is lecturing him about taking care of his body?

“Besides,” Sherlock adds, “it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little more responsible about your skin. Do you even wear sunscreen?”

John raises his eyebrows. “You, of all people, telling me I need to take better care of myself? You do see the irony in that, right?” He suddenly feels the need to defend himself. “Besides, I still look okay, if the girl down at the pub was any indication.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock ignores this. “John, please. It may be shallow, but you know the importance society places on looks.”

“Since when do you care what society thinks?”

“I do, when I can use its opinions and my looks to my advantage. And I’ve seen you staring at me; you know you love the way I look.”

John perches on the edge of the bathtub, careful not to bump Sherlock’s iPod or his glass of wine. “I do, you know I do. I just never dreamed you put this much…” He indicates the mess. “I dunno, effort, into it.” He stands and peers at himself in the mirror. “Do you really think I need some work? I’ve always thought I was ruggedly charming.” He uses his fingers to stretch the skin around his eyes taut. He doesn’t look younger, or more handsome; he just looks weird.

Sherlock appears behind him, his long arms snaking around John’s waist, his green face over John’s left shoulder. “You know I love you just the way you are, wrinkles and all.” He kisses the crows’ feet beside John’s left eye, and John can feel the scratchy, dry clay flake off a bit in the stubble on his cheek. Sherlock’s so close, John can smell all of the products on his face. He leans his head back, so it’s resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Tightening his grip on John, Sherlock continues. “It… bothers me, a little, that when people look at you they don’t see what I see. They only see the surface, not the experience, or the wisdom…” He kisses John’s crows’ feet again, and John closes his eyes. “The suffering you endured, and the way you lived through it, and how it made you a better man. They see your affability, but they don’t see how truly kind and noble you are.” When John smiles, Sherlock kisses his dimple. “I know I’m vain, John. I’m ridiculous. For god’s sake, I’m standing here, in our bathroom, with clay on my face, Moroccan oil in my hair and Vaseline on my feet. More than that, I know I can be… difficult.” John holds back a smile; it’s the closest Sherlock will ever come to apologising for his behaviour. “And yet, for all that, you love me. Even if I’m…” He trails off, and John knows he can’t continue.

He turns and hugs Sherlock, tucking his face into the towel around the other man’s neck. “I shouldn’t have made fun of you. It was stupid of me. I was just so surprised; I never thought, ever, that you went in for this stuff.”

Sherlock pulls away and grips John’s biceps. His eyes are sparkling with the look he gets when he has an idea. “Can I try a little experiment on you? Nothing painful, I promise. You’ll enjoy it.”

John can’t resist Sherlock when he gets that look. He laughs somewhat helplessly and puts his hands on Sherlock’s waist. “Sure, I guess. But you’re not putting that green shite on me, understood?”

Sherlock just smiles, and turns to grab the towel from off the toilet. “Take off your shirt, and wrap this around your neck.” He pushes John to sit on the toilet lid, and pulls the can of shave foam out of the medicine cabinet. Squirting some into his hand, he begins to lather John’s face. When he picks up John’s safety razor, John closes his eyes. “This works better on smooth skin.”

After shaving him carefully, Sherlock pats his face with a warm, damp cloth and carefully applies a thin layer of gel. It smells of aloe, and is cool and tingly on John’s face. “It will tighten your pores and refresh the skin,” he explains.

John sits quietly while the gel absorbs, listening to Sherlock’s music and drinking his wine. After Sherlock rinses his face and his hair in the sink, he pulls John over to the mirror. “What do you think?”

Studying himself, John has to admit Sherlock is right. His skin does look nice, smooth and tight, with a healthy glow. When he touches it, it feels soft and cool. He meets Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror.

“A bloke could get used to this. What is this stuff?”

Sherlock hands him the jar; it’s green, labelled ‘Invigorating Night Gel’. John sniffs it; it smells clean and fresh. “Hmm. What else have you got, stashed away in here?”

Sherlock quirks a smile. “Really, John? You’re not too manly for any of this?”

John strokes Sherlock’s face; it’s smooth and clear. The clay has sloughed off the dull cells, leaving new, baby-soft skin behind. “I’m not saying we’ll advertise this little secret, but I think this is a habit I can encourage.” He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, tasting mint and avocado left from the mask. “You know I love you for you, not for your pretty face, right?”

“I know you do.” Sherlock kneels to rummage through the cabinet under the sink, and passes up something brown and gritty. “Brown-sugar scrub. Wash your hands, and then use that. I know they get chapped, since you wash them so much.”

~~

It becomes a ritual: the two of them, sharing the bathroom or lounging on the sofa, soaking in luxury, enjoying each other’s company. It’s their acknowledgement of the world around them: not everyone is Sherlock, and most people only see the surface. 

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo... this began as I was indulging in my nightly ritual of moisturiser and socks, and I wondered what would happen if John discovered Sherlock did that kind of thing to preserve his good looks. And it sort of turned into something else. 
> 
> It's not really part of my Domestfics series, although I can certainly add it to the series if people think it belongs there.
> 
> If you're wondering, the Invigorating Night Gel is made by Ole Henrikson (Available at Sephora and online, [Ole Henrikson](www.olehenrikson.com)). The brown-sugar scrub is made by Fresh (available at Sephora and online, [Brown Sugar Body Polish](http://www.fresh.com/bodycare/brown-sugar/brown-sugar-body-polish)). Moroccan Oil is available at most hair salons.


End file.
